


What We Want to Forget

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Roadhog had a wife and Junkrat is insecure, im sorry, like a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: Junkrat and Roadhog get married





	What We Want to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic commission and I FUCKED IT UP. This was supposed to be a funny story and I fucked up.
> 
> For [Suuvesi](http://suuvesi.tumblr.com/)! I really hope this is okay. I'm sorry.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who beta'd this for me! I was having a real hard time, so I really appreciate the help. :)

“Hey, whatdya think of that?”

There's a church, the kind they've been building for hundreds of years, near the end of the road. People in proper clothes and big hats wait outside, holding brightly wrapped boxes with sparkly ribbons, and limos line the sidewalks. Old brick is layered with frilly decorations and balloons and flowers; a reminder of old days.

It’s early for them, since they usually travel at night, but today was slow enough to warrant a trip for errands and restocking supplies. Junkrat had insisted on taking the day off, just doing whatever they wanted, and Roadhog had given in. They’d spent an exorbitant amount of money on sweets and drove about at a leisurely pace that Roadhog hadn’t felt since Oz turned to blood and ash. 

Their travels had taken them north, to somewhere deep in the forested Americas; quiet, peaceful, foreign. They hadn’t ruined this town yet, and didn’t plan to. The week had been nothing but running from cops and blowing up gas stations, and they were both getting a little tired. Roadhog just wanted to eat and sleep and not get shot at for a little while.

Being stuck in motel after motel had made Junkrat more panicky and prone to pyromania, but he looks patient now, and Roadhog thinks it’s the misty mountain air and smell of pine trees keeping him mellow. His body is so used to poison that the fresh atmosphere must be cleaning him out. He seems to be alright with it, besides complaining about how cold it is. He’s bundled up in a second hand hoodie they’d found in a thrift store. It reads “World's Best Grandpa” in faded white letters, and he’d begged Roadhog to get it for him. 

Roadhog grips the handlebars of the bike tightly and watches Junkrat admire the gathering as they approach. The popsicle he’d picked up from the shop was already dripping over his dirty fingers. He’s gnawing at it absentmindedly, staring at the happy people in their expensive getups.

“A wedding,” he tells him, and Junkrat seems to be thinking that over. The orange sugar syrup coats his mouth and chin thoroughly, and Roadhog knows it’s going to stain.

“A what?” Junkrat is genuinely asking. Roadhog knows it in the way his brows sit low over his eyes.

He wonders if he should answer. They roll up right as the traffic light turns red, the church only yards away, and Junkrat is still waiting. The sound of laughter and friendly cheering feels louder than the bike. It’s not like he has a choice.

“A party.” He doesn't want to say it. He's a bodyguard, not a teacher. Everything is a new experience for Junkrat, from capitalism to shampoo. He shouldn't have to explain anything to a man who's just going to forget it within the hour. But he still does it every damn time.

“For what?”

He grinds his teeth and maybe if he glares and curses at the red light hard enough it'll turn green and he can speed out of there so fast Junkrat won't even remember his own name. It doesn't, and he's stuck with curious eyes admiring him. He squares his shoulders.

“Love and shit.”

Junkrat grins, sticky and orange. Roadhog has to remind himself that he's not Junkrat’s fucking mother and he's not going to wipe his face for him. The skinny thing tosses what's left of his frozen treat over his shoulder and curls his fingers over the rim of the sidecar, leaning into him.

“People have parties for love? Shit, mate, why ain't we ever had one a those?”

He knew he would say something like that.

“Ya don't wanna have a wedding with me? I'm hurt, honestly. True to me soul.”

“You didn't know they existed a minute ago.”

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Means ya been holding out on me!”

Junkrat gives his sidecar two hard slaps and wiggles his stupid eyebrows like he thinks he's seductive, covered in orange popsicle and swimming in a second hand hoodie. He looks like a confused clown more than anything. Roadhog doesn't want to hear whatever is being cooked up in that melted brain of his, but this has got to be the longest traffic light he's ever had the misfortune of hitting. 

“What say we go have a look? Bet those presents are real nice. Maybe they got booze. And if it's a party, there's gotta be cake, right? Know how much ya like cake, Hoggie.” 

Roadhog wants to throttle him. It would be easy and quick, like snapping a toothpick.

“We ain't doing anything else, come on! Let's rough up the place, have some fun. It's been ages!” He's looking nervous, and he should be. He always knew when he was getting on Roadhog’s last nerve, even when he was just a blank-faced mask. “Let’s smash bottles and set off the fireworks! Make it a real party!”

“No.”

“Hoggie,” he whines, reaching up and rubbing circles into his forearm with his thumb. His fingers are sticky and catch on his arm hair. Roadhog hates to think that this sort of thing normally works on him and that’s why Junkrat does it. He doesn’t take the bait.

“ _No_.”

The light is finally green from all the threats Roadhog’s been muttering at it, and he’s revving so hard he might blow the engine when Junkrat scrambles out of his car and bolts toward the church.

Roadhog can’t count how many times he’s thought of just leaving him. He even said it to his face, once. That had been a real tough couple of days for them both. He’d forced himself to forget a lot of things in his life, but that ugly, crying face would remain in his head for the rest of his days. Right now, all he can think of is how he needs to hogtie Junkrat and throw him in a dumpster.

He roars as loud as his hog and turns it toward the church. Junkrat’s hobbled away quick enough that Roadhog can’t mow him down, not this time. He ducks between the limos and has the audacity to look back at him and laugh as he hurries past confused women and children into the building.

Junkrat likes to play this game. He does something stupid and makes Roadhog track him down like an animal. Turns him on like nothing else. He won’t let him forget about it either, reminds him he needs to be punished even with a hand wrapped around his throat. Roadhog always loved the thrill of the chase anyway--that’s how they had met in the first place.

He parks the bike and huffs it after his idiot of a boss. The guests leading up to the door are running now, dropping their gifts and fancy hats in his wake. He’s trying not to cause more of a scene, or at least prevent Junkrat from blowing up the place, but it’s difficult when he’s covered head to toe in leather and spikes. While it was always easy for Junkrat to find civilian clothes, this podunk town didn’t really have much to offer a quarter ton beast. Not that it would help. Roadhog was the biggest fucker this side of the Rockies, probably the whole continent. Hard to hide under a shirt.

He slides into the chapel and ducks to the right, hoping not to draw any more attention. Most of the seated guests are facing forward in the pews, busy with their own conversations and giving little attention to the noise outside the church. Junkrat must not have made one of his famous entrances.

It’s a relatively large church, high, painted ceilings and worn, ornate wood. Stained glass scenery shines with the afternoon sun, and there are too many things to look at, somber, easy to blend in. He’s never been in one so big, too used to the gutted out shacks from back home. He remembers his having white walls, big windows, green grass, a picket fence, a pretty face.

He shakes it out. The chains and winch clink on his belt loudly, and he holds them to his side as he moves slowly toward an open door. He starts to hear metal and glass thumping and dinging, so he assumes it’s the kitchen. Roadhog scans the aisles one last time for a patchy blonde head and then moves on.

If Junkrat would be anywhere, it’d be the kitchen. Roadhog couldn’t blame him for the voracious way he ate anything that resembled food. Junkrat hadn’t had a decent meal in nearly twenty years, not until he met Roadhog and could go anywhere he wanted, could afford luxuries like clean water and vegetables, food he’d never seen before. Weaning him off of eating too fast was the biggest chore Roadhog had ever had. The first time he had bought him a meal at a real restaurant in Sydney, he’d crammed it in his mouth so quickly that he threw it all back up right then and there.

It was obviously still an ongoing process, because Roadhog turns a corner and there he is at the buffet table, slipping his fingers into a large metal bowl full of pudding and scooping out an entire handful. He bites into it and looks surprised when his teeth clack together, like he was expecting it to be hard.

“You idiot,” Roadhog calls once he realizes the kitchen staff aren’t around. 

Junkrat jumps a little. He’s licking his lips, shaking the rest of the dessert off his hand, and wiping the residue on his shorts. He’s beaming.

“Roadie, can ya believe this? People just come up and take whatever and they don’t gotta pay for it!”

He’s stuffing cookies and hors d'oeuvres into his pockets now, skirting away from Roadhog as he steps closer. He’s giggling and wringing his disgusting fingers together between dishes. The sleeves of his hoodie are already ruined and he looks like he hasn’t washed in a week, despite Roadhog having forced him into the tub just yesterday. “These guys must be loaded if they’re giving stuff away for nothing.”

Roadhog snaps a hand out to grab him, but Junkrat sees it coming and jerks out of his reach just in time. Little bastard. He runs around the table and through a different door, giggles echoing in the tight walls. Roadhog can’t move quickly, not without shaking the centuries old foundation and causing a ruckus. The sleek floorboards creak loudly with each step, but he follows with as much stealth as he can.

This door leads into the pews behind the podium. People are facing them, making it impossible for Roadhog to walk out into the open. Junkrat doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, his hands are stuffed into his pockets and he’s whistling as he walks out like he belongs there. He looks mostly normal, underdressed for a wedding and covered in food, sure, but definitely more normal than a mountain with a pig mask. 

Nobody pays him any mind. He’s looking over his shoulder to challenge Roadhog, as if he has the upper hand. 

Junkrat will never have the upper hand.

Roadhog needs another route. There’s an empty hallway to his right that looks promising. As he ventures down it, he hears a well aged organ start chirping out a hymn he thought he'd forgotten. Slow, melodious and ancient, it hums through the walls. The ceremony is starting. 

He shuffles faster, hearing the murmur of people settling down into their seats, excitement thick enough for him to feel it in the air. Someone on the staff was unlucky enough to bump into him, a terrified face and a panicked yelp. He turns his head and the mask shuts them up, sends them away. 

There's a table with refreshments right past the hallway exit, and he watches Junkrat peruse the alcohol selection, fancy wines and overly sweet punch. He scoops a plastic cup into the bowl instead of using the ladle and tosses it back. The kid's had enough sugar to keep him awake for days.

The music quiets, and there’s a priest now, an old man, like they always are. Junkrat turns his attention there, and that's when Roadhog gets the perfect chance. It's only a few steps out of the doorway to grab him by the arm and yank him back into the hall. Roadhog presses a hand over Junkat’s mouth just as he's about to whine, and squeezes him hard enough to bruise his jaw. 

“Are you ever going to fucking listen to me?” Just like with every rhetorical question, Junkrat wants to answer anyway, words muffling into his palm. He grips him tighter to remind him he's not playing around. “Can I just have one day without you ruining it?”

Junkrat pulls Roadhog’s hand off his face, or rather, Roadhog lets him. “What's wrong with this? It's a big party, no one will even notice us!”

Roadhog isn't about to argue with him. He's already dragging him back the way he’d come. Junkrat squirms and twists and complains like a petulant child.

“Yer a boring old codger, Roadie. Just wanted to see what it was all about.”

Roadhog gives him a quick, violent shake, and his lanky body sways in response. The message is clear: No more talking.

They pass the buffet table again, and Junkrat reaches out to grab more food to stuff into his already bulging pockets. Roadhog hears the music start again, lively and happy and he knows this song too. He peeks his head out, and the entrance to the church is right there. It’s so close, but everyone’s heads are turned toward it. It’s too late.

A white dress, long and lacey, trails on the lovingly worn red carpet. There’s something ethereal about it, how eerily important it seems. It’s a brightness in a sea of colors, a pinpoint to draw the eye. It’s to be marveled at, to be impressed with, to be envious of. The woman’s hair is immaculately pinned up in curls and flowers, all underneath a thin veil, as if she is something to hide.

“Would ya look at that,” is whispered at his side.

She walks slowly to the gentle drone of the organ, and her legs can’t move very far in the tight silhouette of the dress that’s tailored to every piece of her. There’s a team following her, little girls in pink dresses, a man at her arm, photographers. Her head is held high, and she’s smiling with practiced finesse. It’s reminding Roadhog of a day in September they thought would be perfect, but it had rained the night before and the courtyard was nothing but puddles. Her expensive shoes were ruined, but it was okay, she could hide them under her dress. She had told him he looked good with mucked up trousers, gave him “character”, made him look rugged. She had smiled like he was the finest damn man in all of Aotearoa. The world, she had said. The world.

“Ever seen anything like this?”

His breathing had gotten a little bit loud through the mask, so he exhales as quietly as he can. He didn’t even notice that he’d loosened his grip around Junkrat’s arm, but Junkrat was holding onto Roadhog now, his little boney fingers tucked into the leather of his glove.

“Once.”

That earns him a look, one he wasn’t going to acknowledge. The hand in his tightens, but Junkrat stays quiet. He’ll let him think on this one.

The entrance is blocked with too many photographers. This is more expensive than he thought. He looks around the kitchen again, notices the staff on the other side of the room staring at them, and he wonders how long they’ve been watching. He grunts, and they scurry away. So much for keeping out of sight.

There had to be another way out of this place. He sees a dim neon exit sign above a door just past the hallway. He wouldn't be able to sneak over there, not when the whole church's attention was up at the front. They were stuck until the ceremony was over. 

This was not something he wanted to see. The music was already wearing him thin, and he didn't know if he could sit through the whole thing without getting distracted again and losing his edge. It probably wouldn't take much at this point. The clicks of cameras and the whispers of teary-eyed guests make him bristle. 

He focuses on Junkrat. It's easy, familiar, constant. He's still lost in thought, eyebrows furrowed and gears turning. Roadhog has seen this look many times when things go wrong and he has to plan differently, reboot his brain and start over. Radiation has made his thought process a little out of whack, but it's kept him alive so far, so it can't be completely bad. Junkrat’s tongue works over his teeth gently, but he’s still silent.

When she reaches the front of the church, she turns to the groom, tall and handsome, and the priest begins. It's always about the sanctity of love and soft emotions and the bonding of souls. Junkrat is listening carefully while Roadhog is lost again, his attention back on the ceremony, remembering the way he'd hated the sermon, and so had she, so instead they'd made faces at each other from only a foot away. She'd smelled like a Sunday morning in spring. He had worn the cologne her father had bought him for his birthday.

Junkrat’s pulling him back again, finally asking the question Roadhog knew was coming. “What do you mean, ‘once?’ ”

He's still battling the memories he'd burned a long time ago, the things he'd buried with Mako out in the red desert. The past is for lesser men, the kind that dwell and hope and pray for the good times to come back. He looks at Junkrat and all he sees are big pained eyes and questions, always questions. A man who couldn’t remember the past even if he tried.

Roadhog shifts the hand out of his and that was a mistake, a terrible one, and he doesn't even know he regrets it yet. Junkrat immediately looks scorned, punched in the gut and betrayed, his theories all correct. It must be muddling up his brain, because his eyes are glassy and his lips are torn between a frown and a desperate smile. He stands up straight, patting down his hoodie as if he were covered in the dust from back home-- A comforting habit.

“Yeah,” Junkrat starts, and it’s a painful croak, like his throat isn’t even sure what to do. “Yeah, I bet ya had one just like this, huh? Real pretty like. Fancy.”

Roadhog sighs, feeling Junkrat start to twitch and pick at the threads of his clothes beside him. He knows he should calm him down, put his nerves to rest, but he can’t bring himself to do it, not with her hand held up for the ring. It slips on gently as she smiles and cries beautiful tears. She was his now, and he was hers.

“Mushy stuff,” Junkrat spits, but the venom is weak and anxious. He’s started tossing the food from his pockets to the floor, biscuits crushed to dust in his palms. “This ain’t fun anymore.”

The priest is introducing the vows, which are as painfully cliche as they’ll always be, always have been. You can try to find a way to say “I love you” poetically, but it all sounds the same: sappy and boring. Roadhog hadn’t spent much time on his, and neither had she. It was whatever had come into their head, genuine and spontaneous. 

Junkrat is tugging on his hair, biting his lip.

“I get it, yeah. No. I know.”

Roadhog doesn’t understand what he’s rambling about, but he’s about to put the panic attack to rest when the organ groans to life again, this time something sweet and happy. They’re stepping up to the podium, a golden stamped paper placed between them with big feathery pens on either side. A marriage license. He’d remembered signing theirs at the courthouse after everything was over. Maybe these days they do it all in one go.

“Hey!”

He looks down at his side when he hears that familiar voice, but Junkrat’s gone. He feels the calm of the church turn cold and upset, and he realizes Junkrat is hobbling his way down the aisle, past horrified guests and toward the couple. He’s got intent in his limp, fierceness in his gait, and he’s still dropping crumbs out of his grubby pockets. Roadhog is immediately following, because this was already a disaster and he might as well be a part of it.

Junkrat hops up the little stairs and grabs the paper before the couple have a chance to sign it. Even from his place farther down the way, Roadhog can see the bride’s thunderstruck and angry face, her wedding ruined by the outburst of a dirty homeless stranger.

“I’ll be taking this, thanks,” Junkrat tells her, and she has raging tears in her eyes, no longer pretty glistening ones. The groom quickly grabs Junkrat by the shoulder, as if it will stop him.

“You can’t just-”

Junkrat grabs him right back in a twist and jerk, lifting him up on his toes by his silky black lapels, crushing the gold paper between his dirty hand and a clean suit. The man shuts his mouth and tries to pry Junkrat off, but it’s not going to happen. As Roadhog gets closer, he sees bared yellow teeth snarling.

“Fuck you, I can’t!”

The guests would be in an absolute uproar if it weren’t for Roadhog stomping his way forward, shaking the floor and keeping them all silent and still. The cameras are clicking even faster than before. He’s got Junkrat by the back of his hoodie, wrenching him back so hard the groom almost comes with him. The skinny junker pushes the startled man away, the license gripped tightly in a white knuckled fist, and he yells obscenities all the way out of the church. The photographers follow them just out the door, and Roadhog has half a mind to grab their cameras and crush them under his boot, but he’s preoccupied with the sudden silence from his cohort. Roadhog is still feeling the frustrating bubbling in his gut, the softness of memories making his bones ache, and he has little sympathy left for him.

When they get to the bike, he crams Junkrat into his sidecar none too gently, and Junkrat doesn’t even wince. He just lets his head loll away from Roadhog, pouting. The license is stuffed into his hoodie pocket for safekeeping.

The drive to their motel is absolutely silent between them, just the sound of traffic and the pampered engine of the bike. It only seems to make their shared anger more potent, festering and simmering right to the top. Junkrat’s curled into his car so tightly he’s practically on the floor of it. Roadhog is already thinking of how they’re going to be on the news, or how those photographers are going to turn those photos of them in to the police. He couldn’t even take a day to cool down and start over. The game of cat and mouse was just going to start all over again.

Junkrat barely waits for him to park before he’s jumping out and dashing up the rickety stairs of this week’s hideout. Roadhog’s dealt with this kind of tantrum hundreds of times before. He’ll let Junkrat crawl back into his good graces like always.

He takes his time getting up the stairs. It hadn’t been a strenuous day, nothing like the normal car chases and firefights, but he feels drained all the same. He reminds himself that this is Junkrat’s fault, and he’d be alright with not speaking to him for the rest of the evening.

The door to their room is left wide open, and he huffs through his mask. Idiot. When he walks in, the bathroom is locked, and he can hear the muffled sound of the shower running. He can go ahead and cry in there all he wants. At least he’d be clean. 

Roadhog finally gets to unwind, tossing his harness and boots into the corner, and he wishes he could throw himself on the bed without it falling apart under him. He sits down carefully and leans back, listening for any pops or crunches in the metal frame. It moans as he settles into the pillows, and he lets out a long, tired breath. The ceiling has yellow and brown water stains, and the air conditioner smells musty, but everything is peaceful and quiet and it’s just what he needs.

For a moment he wonders if these memories could ever truly be buried. He could forget about his home and his old life, but maybe not this. It’s too tender. He thinks it may be nice to have Junkrat’s brain for a while, to not remember a damn thing even if his life depended on it. But then he’d be a twitchy, annoying moron. Maybe remembering was better.

Roadhog unbuckles his mask and slides it off his face. The cold air hits his nose quickly, humid and still smelling like pine. His pores breathe and he’s already starting to feel better. He sets the mask on the nightstand, threads his fingers together over his gut, and closes his eyes.

It’s hours before he awakes to long, thin fingers at his belly, smoothing over him gently. The room is black, but he lets his eyes adjust to the moon shining through the thin curtains, and he sees the shape of his boss, feels his thighs spread over his. He’s quiet, not even a giggle or a nervous twitch.

“Rat,” Roadhog groans out, pressing a hand to his face to rub away the sleep, “What is it?”

The caresses falter a bit, like they’ve lost determination. Junkrat traces the faded black lines of his tattoo, follows the curves and points of the orange flames. He shifts forward, pressing their hips together. Roadhog had forgotten to take off his belt before he got into bed, but it looks like Junkrat had removed it for him, because he feels the button to his pants pop open.

“Rat,” he warns. Junkrat won’t listen.

A warm hand delves in and begins palming him softly. Roadhog grumbles at the stirring in his cock. He’s still tired and not quite awake yet, but the gentle touch from normally graceless fingers is bewitching.

It’s too solemn. When they fuck it’s like a hurricane of dust and sweat and bruises. They get carried away until they’re both just animals, howling and rutting. Junkrat is demanding, loud, and restless. Roadhog takes what he wants, and that’s exactly what Junkrat likes. It’s dirty and brutal because that’s what they are. This isn’t right.

Junkrat rests his cheek against Roadhog’s stomach and continues rubbing him in his pants. He’s slow, his thumb turning in circles, squeezing just enough to get the blood flowing. He pulls the cock out, and the zipper digs into the underside painfully, but Junkrat’s quick to drag his pants down his hips.

“You’re quiet,” Roadhog says to the shadow stroking him. There’s a sick feeling in the air, and he knows what it is. Junkrat doesn’t even look at him, just curls his fingers tighter and presses against the swollen head. He moves his good leg further up his hip, feels his naked skin, and the only sound in the room is the hum of the air conditioner and the ruffling of the sheets.

Roadhog should have said something back there when he had that terrible look on his face and questions in his eyes. He knew Junkrat was hurt and insecure, but he just ignored him in favor of thinking of someone else, someone Junkrat would never be. He’d made it all worse.

He lifts a big hand out to touch clean blonde hair, but Junkrat moves away, settles between Roadhog’s legs, and takes him into his mouth. He moans, can’t help it, let’s him bob and suck at his own pace. The pleasure is starting to pulse in his blood, but the guilt dulls it, makes him feel disgusting. He hasn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

Teeth nip at his skin the way Roadhog had taught him, tongue flat against a vein. Junkrat’s mouth pops off with a smacking sound just to go back down, pushing all the way until it hits the back of his throat. He can’t fit it all, but his hand is wrapped around the base, making it feel as if he really could. He swallows around him, contracting tightly, and it’d be wonderful if his thoughts weren't ruining it.

Roadhog goes to touch him again, and this time Junkrat seems angry, taking his mouth off and shoving the offending hand away. Even in the dark he can see the shine of the prosthetic arm moving, reaching up to slick back his patchy hair nervously. Junkrat breathes sharply through his nose.

“Just let me do this,” he says, and it’s soft and wrong. The sad sound of it tears into Roadhog’s scars, digs into his belly like a dagger. He wants to tell Junkrat it’s okay, but he’d missed his chance by a few good hours. He’d let him fester in his own thoughts for too long and now he’s stuck.

Junkrat straddles his hips again, reaching behind him to stroke Roadhog’s cock one last time. Shaky fingers press it against his hole, and it’s dripping with slick. He’d already worked himself open for this, and it slides in easily. They’re both moaning in unison as Junkrat sits down slowly, fitting together inch by inch. It’s tight and unbearably hot, searing his skin and making his gut clench. Junkrat grips Roadhog’s stomach the best he can, pressing hard against him.

“I,” rings out past the sound of their panting, and it’s a shivering tone Roadhog wishes he couldn’t hear, “I know I ain’t pretty.”

Junkrat glides all the way down and rolls his hips teasingly. The feeling makes them both twitch and groan. He kisses the friendly little pig on Roadhog’s belly. “I ain’t smart or good or nothin’.”

Roadhog wants to touch him so badly it makes his fingers ache. The heat of Junkrat’s lips and touch and his whole body is messing with his head, and his cruel words make him uneasy. He wants to fuck into him and make Junkrat forget everything, just like always.

“But ya like me just fine, right?”

Junkrat lifts himself up and drops back down, sweet smooth movement. His back curves and arches into it, whimpers with a sensual rock of his hips. The tempo is indulgent and heavenly, and yet so maddening and painful. It’s too soft, too tender. Roadhog feels the tremble of clammy skin, sees the outline of his boss grow tense in the shoulders.

“Ya don’t gotta say nothin’.”

It’s too much. Roadhog grips Junkrat’s hips hard and it earns him a startled cry. As much as he’d rejected him before, Junkrat seems fine with letting himself be pushed back onto the cheap creaky bed, letting Roadhog take control. The light escaping through a line in the curtains spreads over his face, and Roadhog hates the watery look in his eyes, the grimace on his lips. He’s an unstable range of emotions that he’d never been good at hiding anyway. He chokes out a desperate sound that echos in Roadhog’s ears and he doubts he could ever forget it. Boney hands clasp over his wrists as he holds him down and nudges back in.  


“I like you just fine,” Roadhog answers, and the thrusts push Junkrat back and forth against the ugly blue comforter. At this angle he can see amber eyes clenched shut, eyebrows furrowed deep on his forehead. Little anguished noises escape his mouth as he’s fucked with too much care and sentiment. The hands squeeze his wrists harder, and Junkrat is breathless.

Roadhog sinks into him deep and thumbs the thin skin stretched tight over prominent hipbones. Junkrat is crying now, tears rolling down his temples into his hair, and he’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He tests the waters by running his big fingers through his hair, and Junkrat immediately nuzzles into it, a strangled moan pressed into his palm. Roadhog plunges in until his hips start to hurt and sweat makes him sticky. Junkrat is stroking himself as he kisses and licks at Roadhog’s hand, and he loves the curl of his toes and shuddered breaths and fidgeting flesh. 

“Fuck,” Junkrat curses quietly, and it’s a mix of relief and desolation. He grinds down, clenching around him and pressing his free hand to Roadhog’s. “I like ya a lot.”

“I see that,” Roadhog whispers, and God if that isn’t the sweetest voice he’s ever heard come from his own lips. Junkrat tenses up and turns to stone under him, a shameless wail ripping from his throat as he coats his hard stomach in cum. The sound of Junkrat’s loud release sets a fire in Roadhog, picking up the pace for just a moment before following suit. He shoves in hard, gushing into the writhing body underneath him, holding him down as if he were going to disappear, and groans long and winded.

Junkrat’s laughing and grinning into Roadhog’s hand. In the dark, his shoulders shake up and down and his whole body vibrates with it. It’s a welcome sight, completely wrecked and covered in cum and so happy to be like that. Roadhog pets over his wet eyes, and Junkrat places a long kiss on him. It’s playful. Roadhog lets all of his stress and frustration out in one big sigh. He doesn’t need to say anything else. Junkrat purrs at him.

“Ya wanna see me in a dress like that one?”

“Yeah,” Roadhog says, pulling out with a grunt. “You have to wear the heels too.”

Junkrat giggles and sniffs, running his wrist under his nose. “One heel.”

Everything’s okay. The weight is lifted, and they both look exhausted. Junkrat starts to roll over to get up, but Roadhog’s there first, planting a kiss on his lips before he knows it, and Junkrat returns it full force, wrapping both arms around his head and crushing them together. It’s almost chaste, nothing like the sloppy makeouts Junkrat normally subjects him to, slow and languid. Junkrat melts as Roadhog maneuvers them both off the bed and to the bathroom. He doubts he can get Junkrat off him for all the money in the world.

After a quick clean up, they’re back in bed, one skinny leg trying to find a way to twine with Roadhog’s. It doesn’t work so well, but he’s content to poke his head under the big man’s chin and leave it there. He half expects him to keep talking, to play the day off as a joke and ask Roadhog more personal questions, but all he hears is snoring and mumbling. His limp lanky body twists and molds to every part of his partner, and they’ll be unbearably hot soon. Right now, Roadhog just wants to watch the way he breathes, the way his mouth moves and talks even in sleep. His whole body twitches like a dreaming dog, fingers curling and elbows jabbing.

Roadhog wants to replace his memories with things like this.

When morning comes and the sun interrupts them, Junkrat complains about not having slept well enough, pulling Roadhog back under the covers when he tries to get up. For once, Roadhog lets him. They aren’t in a hurry. The early hours are wasted touching each other in a way that seems different, new, more important. Junkrat tells him he’s handsome. Roadhog tells him he’s an idiot.

The gold crumpled paper is laid out on the nightstand, the wrinkles smoothed out the best they could be. Junkrat looks at him expectantly, nervous, optimistic. He fiddles with a pen with the motel’s address on it, gives him one last odd look, and signs his name. Some of the letters are backwards, and there are some extra lines here and there, but it’s legible. He shoves the pen into Roadhog’s hand and it’s so small he can barely hold it properly. Junkrat watches him like he’s going to turn around and punch him in the face, waiting for him to do his part. Maybe he’s afraid he won’t and he’ll look like a sappy goon.

Roadhog signs his name on the line in much better handwriting. He admires the way Junkrat’s eyes light up in sparks, smiling so wide he can see all his teeth. He’s already rambling about what they plan on doing today, making wild hand gestures and cackling about snacks. Roadhog doesn’t have the heart to tell him the license is worthless without a stamp from the government, or that they aren’t even citizens of the country. Then again, he doesn’t need the government’s permission to do anything. He doesn’t care if it’s not real.

He slips the paper into his pocket. He’d be keeping it safe.

A memory.


End file.
